A realization slots into place for Paul in this moment, caught between the mundane and the tragic. He's in the midst of opening a packet of smoked mushroom jerky when he has it. He is thinking about this room, and listening to Gideon weaving a future for them with her words, and she is vital and warm and alive beside him, and he understands something else about why he came back to this place, to shelter under this roof.

The world is miserable. So is he. So is she, even if she's brave enough not to show it. Things aren't going to get much better any time soon. He can see futures unfolding before him like scrawled maps, and he doesn't like where most of them lead.

But here, with her, he feels better, more safe. He feels watched over, in the way of being seen. Gideon looks after him. He tries to look after her. Paul does know what this feeling is. He just never expected it to come back to him.

"I'd like that," he tells her, bumping his knee against hers, "But now I might have to make the shirt bad on purpose, to give myself a chance. You've played your hand too soon."

Then, softer, so she knows he doesn't mean that: "You'd still manage to make it look cool." Softer still, but this time so she knows he does mean this: "Thank you."